years. I’d shortchange enough people each night to pay Caleb for a trip to the liquor store or beer distributor. My boss didn’t mind me working drunk, and Cindy Sindy, my girlfriend since junior high, didn’t mind me not buying her anything. She’d say, “I don’t love you for your money.”
I dropped out of high school after Christmas my senior year. The vice principal had it in for me and gave me detention every day for not making it to detention every day before that. But I told him I had a job and couldn’t miss it.
“If you felt the same way about school, you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.”
“I work until midnight and I’m tired,” I’d say. But really, I’d work until midnight, drink until about four, and then pass out until noon, when I’d decide, ultimately, that I’d missed too much of the school day to go in. My mother had given up on me long before the vice principal did. Our last conversation about school, while she signed the forms the vice principal gave me to drop out, went something like this:
“Why couldn’t you be more like Jack?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I could be.” Jack loved school. Loved dissecting frogs, doing word problems, going to football games, and dating cheerleaders. He was already in college, learning how to make money off money.
“At least Caleb got a trade. At least he got something.”
“Yeah. He was lucky.” Caleb was a cabinetmaker and worked in a shop making kitchens.
She looked up from signing and slapped the pen down on the table. “Damn it, Kenny! When’re you gonna stop blaming everyone else for your shit? Caleb isn’t lucky! He’s responsible!”
What I’d meant was, Caleb was lucky to land a job and keep it while being a closet drunk. Because he had my father’s drinking genes, too.
In the end, I went to AA first, after one night babysitting Vera when she was seven months old. She wouldn’t stop crying and it started to drive me crazy and I thought, just for a split second—a split second that would turn out to be life-changing—that I should shake her or stuff her head in a pillow or something to make her stop. The only reason she was crying was because I was too drunk to remember to feed her. Lucky for both of us, Cindy Sindy came home from the club and found me half nuts, pacing the house, hugging the baby, crying like Vera was. I remember she said, “Ken, look at you! You’re worse than her !”
The next day, I went to my first meeting. Caleb followed me eight years later, after losing three of his fingers to a table saw because he was drinking on the job.
I’ve warned Vera about the drinking genes, but she acts like it’s funny. She jokes about stripper genes too, but she’s too young to understand the situation Cindy Sindy was in when she was born and I was drunk. Plus, youth is judgmental. With time, she will experience enough shit to free her own demons. I just wish I could give her a ticket to pass Go faster.
KEN DIETZ’S FLOW CHART OF DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR
MONDAY, JANUARY 2ND
Here’s me not using fainéant in a sentence.
My Vocab teacher, Mrs. Buchman, looks concerned. I failed. I didn’t even try to guess. My head hurts and no matter how much gum I chew, my mouth is like a highway in lower New Mexico.
“Vera, I’m concerned,” she says.
“I just forgot. I don’t know what got into me,” I say, but what I mean is: Who gives Vocab words over Christmas break?
“This might lower your grade,” she says. But I don’t care, because all I can think about is James and whether I’ll ever see him again. I imagine him in the small police station over in Mount Pitts getting his mug shot taken. I imagine him having to leave Pagoda Pizza. I imagine him leaving me no note, no number, no word. Like, maybe the universe is trying to save me from my destiny now that I’ve given up on saving myself.
Still, I walk around cocky all day. I have a secret life. All these idiots are caught
I dropped out of high school after Christmas my senior year. The vice principal had it in for me and gave me detention every day for not making it to detention every day before that. But I told him I had a job and couldn’t miss it.
“If you felt the same way about school, you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.”
“I work until midnight and I’m tired,” I’d say. But really, I’d work until midnight, drink until about four, and then pass out until noon, when I’d decide, ultimately, that I’d missed too much of the school day to go in. My mother had given up on me long before the vice principal did. Our last conversation about school, while she signed the forms the vice principal gave me to drop out, went something like this:
“Why couldn’t you be more like Jack?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I could be.” Jack loved school. Loved dissecting frogs, doing word problems, going to football games, and dating cheerleaders. He was already in college, learning how to make money off money.
“At least Caleb got a trade. At least he got something.”
“Yeah. He was lucky.” Caleb was a cabinetmaker and worked in a shop making kitchens.
She looked up from signing and slapped the pen down on the table. “Damn it, Kenny! When’re you gonna stop blaming everyone else for your shit? Caleb isn’t lucky! He’s responsible!”
What I’d meant was, Caleb was lucky to land a job and keep it while being a closet drunk. Because he had my father’s drinking genes, too.
In the end, I went to AA first, after one night babysitting Vera when she was seven months old. She wouldn’t stop crying and it started to drive me crazy and I thought, just for a split second—a split second that would turn out to be life-changing—that I should shake her or stuff her head in a pillow or something to make her stop. The only reason she was crying was because I was too drunk to remember to feed her. Lucky for both of us, Cindy Sindy came home from the club and found me half nuts, pacing the house, hugging the baby, crying like Vera was. I remember she said, “Ken, look at you! You’re worse than her !”
The next day, I went to my first meeting. Caleb followed me eight years later, after losing three of his fingers to a table saw because he was drinking on the job.
I’ve warned Vera about the drinking genes, but she acts like it’s funny. She jokes about stripper genes too, but she’s too young to understand the situation Cindy Sindy was in when she was born and I was drunk. Plus, youth is judgmental. With time, she will experience enough shit to free her own demons. I just wish I could give her a ticket to pass Go faster.
KEN DIETZ’S FLOW CHART OF DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR
MONDAY, JANUARY 2ND
Here’s me not using fainéant in a sentence.
My Vocab teacher, Mrs. Buchman, looks concerned. I failed. I didn’t even try to guess. My head hurts and no matter how much gum I chew, my mouth is like a highway in lower New Mexico.
“Vera, I’m concerned,” she says.
“I just forgot. I don’t know what got into me,” I say, but what I mean is: Who gives Vocab words over Christmas break?
“This might lower your grade,” she says. But I don’t care, because all I can think about is James and whether I’ll ever see him again. I imagine him in the small police station over in Mount Pitts getting his mug shot taken. I imagine him having to leave Pagoda Pizza. I imagine him leaving me no note, no number, no word. Like, maybe the universe is trying to save me from my destiny now that I’ve given up on saving myself.
Still, I walk around cocky all day. I have a secret life. All these idiots are caught
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